


Urgency

by orphan_account



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Hand Jobs, M/M, Watersports, i need to go to church
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-03
Updated: 2016-02-03
Packaged: 2018-05-17 23:32:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,051
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5889391
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Just look at it this way, Hamilton: you have two choices―either you hold it in, or you piss yourself. Right here.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Urgency

**Author's Note:**

> I have nothing to say except sorry (for both the sin and the kind of flat ending.)

Alexander Hamilton is 98% certain he is going to die before the end of this meeting.

Washington, bless him, is completely oblivious to the immanent disaster of his treasury secretary―talking at great length about something Hamilton really probably doesn’t care to hear about, judging by the way he can see Jefferson conferring agreeably with Madison and giving the occasional affirmative nod across the table.

Somewhere, as his leg shakes idly to keep himself occupied with the quiet, rhythmic tapping of his foot, part of Alexander retains snippets of the matter, storing them in the back of his mind to call upon if at some point they become relevant to his work or valuable in dragging Jefferson; for the most part, though, he’s far too distracted―barely able to think but for a torturous pressure on his bladder which seems to only increase every second he has to sit in this damned chair and listen to this damned meeting.

Good _god_ he needs to piss.

He tries not to squirm too obviously through Washington’s closing address, though the incessant tapping of his foot seems to be less inconspicuous than Hamilton had hoped, earning him a quizzical look from his superior, and he tries to weigh the chances of of the wide-eyed _please hurry up_ look on his face making any impact at all.

Hamilton curses the two cups of coffee he’d downed this morning―a mix up in his order had meant the first, though large, contained not nearly enough caffeine for regular bodily function, so he’d been faced with no alternative than to have another stronger coffee later. And then there was the rather large glass of water he’d drank through the opening of this meeting to keep himself from commenting on all the dumb shit Burr had been saying, the senator’s statement offered with so little conviction that Hamilton was almost convinced he was reciting verbatim from _Modern Politics For Dummies_ ―but he’d tweet that particular rant later.

When finally the meeting closes and all the cabinet rises as Washington leaves, Hamilton is certain he’s never been so glad to see the end of one of Washington’s speeches in his life, hands still white-knuckled as his fingernails bite half-moons into his palms in an attempt to distract from the ache of his bladder.

_God bless George Washington and his succinct closing statements, bless him for getting to the point without waffling. Thank god for George Washington, savior of Secretaries of Treasuries who need to piss, thank god-_

“Hamilton―”

_Fuck._

“Jefferson.” He tries not to sound like he’s grinding the name through a clenched jaw, not quite managing the cool ‘fuck you’ to his voice usually reserved for Thomas Jefferson especially―possibly due to the fact that it’s taking a good portion of his brain function to keep from wetting himself as he stands here.

“I couldn’t help but notice how _distracted_ you seemed during the meeting,” Jefferson drawls; Hamilton can feel his knees shudder impatiently as the tight throb of urgency increases, and part of him notices the way Jefferson has positioned himself semi-casually in front of the door. “You started squirming, what––twenty minutes into that meeting? Only half an hour later and you’re ready to burst.”

More than a little affronted by Jefferson’s choice of topic in what he assumes is an attempt to reach their daily quota of loathing, Hamilton scowls. “Listen, Jefferson, as deeply _disturbed_ as I am that you’re so concerned about my bathroom breaks, I really don’t have time for this, so get out of my way or I swear, I’ll–”

“You’ll what?” Jefferson’s words cut through his threat in a lazy tone which makes Hamilton’s stomach clench inexplicably, the smirk curled on his lips suggesting this isn’t just mocking—that he somehow seems to know exactly how high the risk Hamilton is running of a terrible ‘accident’ taking place right here, in the cabinet room (and that he’s willing to take it). “You’ll piss yourself just to spite me?”

The crude words seem utterly wrong in the immaculate space of the cabinet, yet Hamilton pales, mouth going dry as he squirms with the effort to not cross his legs—feeling a sudden need to not give Jefferson the satisfaction of seeing his discomfort. As he searches for a sign that this is some sick joke, Jefferson moves away from the door and the Virginian's voice comes again, every bit as scornful as it is a purr, “I can’t promise that’ll have the effect your threat was going for.”

Frozen in place, the obscene suggestion of Jefferson’s remark sends a tremor through Hamilton and his pulse quickens at the thought that perhaps he isn't imagining the filthy implication; now Hamilton finds himself faced with the possibility that no matter if he somehow manages to hold on for another hour or gives in to the need to release after only another minute; Jefferson will get what he seems to want.

“Jefferson–....” The attempt at annoyance is lost to the building desperation which laces his voice, cheeks flushed with shame and frustration at the thoughts flooding his mind as Jefferson moves and pauses behind him. Hamilton can smell him, expensive and warm—close, but not near enough to touch, to feel the firm press of his body against his back, but enough to know the smirk which has pulled across Jefferson’s lips from the way his words croon mockingly against Hamilton’s neck, sending shudders through him.

“Just look at it this way, Hamilton: you have two choices―either you hold it in, or you piss yourself. Right here.”

Despite it all, Hamilton can feel the pangs of guilty arousal as they flush through him with Jefferson’s ultimatum, the low grate of his words leaving Hamilton's humiliation to settle hot and low in his gut, and somehow he knows Jefferson is all too aware of this. He swallows tightly, head bowing as every other muscle draws taut as a bowstring, trembling with the effort it’s taking to hold on.

A pause, before the Virginian's voice is by his ear again, somewhat softer this time: "Say the word, and this'll stop."  
Hamilton tries not to find a challenge in it, his eyes darting to the door. But he doesn't move; part of him knows he could make a dash for the door and hope for the best, but even if he wanted to (and Hamilton _hates_ that he almost doesn't want to), he’s certain that if he tries to move he’ll burst. So he keeps quiet and supresses a shudder as the pleased hum of Jefferson's approval rings in his ears.

His hand snakes around Hamilton’s middle, flinching as the Virginian’s knuckles press unforgivingly into the flesh just above his bladder. The whine it draws from him is sharp and keening, shuddering body bowing back against Jefferson’s in an attempt to evade the cruel pressure of his fist. He can feel Jefferson’s cock press to the swell of his ass and Hamilton can no longer tell if it’s the other man’s arousal which causes his breath to falter, confirming the motives behind Jefferson’s interest in his need to piss, or his own humiliation, as Jefferson’s other hand drops to cup him through his neatly pressed pants.

“You can’t hold on, can you?” He clicks his tongue in disdain, breath hot by Hamilton’s ear, “You’re going to piss all over yourself… Ruin those pants and the carpet. What will people _think_ , Alexander, when they see you coming out of here, covered in your own mess?”

As he speaks, Jefferson kneads his palm over the crotch of Hamilton’s trousers, cock achingly hard and throbbing with the need to piss. People will see him, there’s no avoiding it—they’ll know what happened, or they’ll guess. His legs tremble at the thought and a desperate moan leaves Hamilton, hating how the threat of people knowing, how the disgust in Jefferson’s voice, only heightens his need. He feels pathetic, filthy, knows it's utterly wrong that he’s getting off on this but _god_ , he needs to let go and Hamilton finds himself almost craving the mocking words of Jefferson, the disdain on his face when he–

_“Oh—”_

Hamilton gasps sharply as his control breaks, throat tightening with disgrace as the slow spill of piss, already too late to prevent and impossible to hold back, seeps into a dark stain on the front of his trousers; Jefferson still doesn’t let go of his cock, Hamilton’s release spilling between his fingers. The hiss of urine as it spills hot and humiliating in streams down his leg is the only sound other than Hamilton’s ashamed whimper of relief; his knees go weak and Hamilton knows he’d be left to fall but for Jefferson’s arm around his middle, keeping him up. Jefferson’s breath hitches and his hips rut slowly, crudely against Hamilton’s thigh until he has given every drop.The indignity of it makes him ache.

The smell of him is acrid and heady, the carpet beneath them soaked with piss. Hamilton’s throat is like sandpaper, hands white-knuckled with his degradation and cock throbbing as Jefferson palms him through the soaked fabric of his pants. Hamilton almost wants to say no, but he’s already been brought to this level of humiliation at Jefferson’s hand, and somehow the thought of dealing with it himself—of stealing away to the bathrooms to stroke himself to guilty climax—seems worse than succumbing.

He doesn’t take long―slicked with his own arousal and piss, Jefferson doesn’t even remove him from his soiled trousers. Hamilton’s body buckles and quakes against the other man’s with a groan which feels more like a sob from the way his throat has tightened, spilling hot into Jefferson’s hand with his lip snagged between his teeth to muffle what whimpers he can. Hamilton can feel the hum of Jefferson’s satisfied breath against his throat as his trembling stills, the exhale steady in contrast to the ragged hitching of his own. Hamilton can still feel the press of Jefferson’s arousal against him and perhaps in another circumstance―someplace not so public, sometime more discussed―Hamilton would sink to his knees and offer him the obedient use of his mouth; but he can barely move for shame and some vague part of him remembers that he’s very late for a meeting―one he’s ultimately going to have to miss, because he can’t stay like this.

Regardless, Jefferson doesn't seem to have any intention of lingering as he crosses to the table, plucks a couple of tissues from the box near the jug of water and wipes his hand clean of any mess.  
"I'll call for a janitor in ten minutes," he suggests in a steady tone, betraying nothing of what they've just done and slipping the soiled tissues away to dispose of later, as Hamilton tries to collect himself, "suggest that someone's kid came by on break and had an accident."

He pauses a moment as if waiting for something to be said and Hamilton looks up to meet his unfased expression, breath still unsteady as he tries to think of a way to get to his car without shaming himself further. The satisfaction in Jefferson's feature settles like lead in his gut, but where scorn had once been, Hamilton finds nothing.

"The front desk will be more or less empty. Go home; clean yourself up. When you come back swing by my office and we can... talk about all this." Jefferson moves to the door as he speaks, lip snagging momentarily in his teeth as his eyes skim Hamilton's form once again―lingering just briefly on the dark stains, before offering Hamilton a nod and slipping out of the meeting room. The door closes behind him with no sign of what took place inside.

Hamilton stands in place only a moment longer, pants sticking uncomfortably to his legs as he finds his coat and slips it on—it doesn't do much to hide the stains, but should suffice to get him to his car more or less unnoticed. He doesn't allow his thoughts to linger any longer than they have to on the implications of Jefferson's offer to _talk,_ uncertain whether it's the ambiguity or the potential of it which makes him shudder... he'd deal with that later.


End file.
